


walking on a wire, but you're holding it steady

by glowinghorizons



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:37:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowinghorizons/pseuds/glowinghorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy Blake has been the Captain of the Ark Rebels for three years, and he's got one goal on his mind: to win the Stanley Cup. When the general manager of the Rebels dies suddenly and leaves the team to his daughter, Bellamy finds himself with a new challenge: trying not to get fired for being an asshole to his new boss.</p>
<p>or;</p>
<p>The 'Take Me Out to the Ball Game' + hockey + Bellarke fusion you never knew you wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walking on a wire, but you're holding it steady

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I’m from Detroit, and that means hockey is in my blood. They call us ‘Hockeytown’ for a reason, after all. This is a sports!fic, but you don’t need to know how hockey *actually* works to understand this. If you have questions or things aren’t clear please feel free to message me! I tried to simplify it as much as possible. 
> 
> This is also sort of loosely based on the plot for “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”, except with hockey. I highly recommend it. It’s pretty cheesy, but you can’t beat Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra in baseball uniforms.
> 
> The rating is for language, because let's be honest: if Bellamy Blake played hockey, he would swear all the fucking time. Special thanks to the ladies at BFFNET for giving me inspiration for the team name, and for kicking me in the ass to finish this.
> 
>   
> **Update 7/22/16:**  
>   
>  This fic has been nominated in the 2016 Bellarke Fanfiction Awards for best Enemies to Lovers fic! If you want to see the other nominees and vote for your faves, click [here.](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/post/147720433667/wow-almost-80-people-filled-out-nomination-forms)  
> 

.

 

Bellamy flexes his blade, the give and stretch he feels confirming what he pretty much already knew — the last hit he took left him with a broken stick, and on a penalty kill against one of the better teams in their division. 

 

“Fucking great,” he mutters, throwing his stick to one side and getting in position in front of his net, clenching his jaw. He drops to a knee and blocks a shot with his skate, the crowd roaring in approval in his ear as he makes eye contact with Tristan, the guy who hit him from behind a minute earlier and broke his stick. 

 

“Blake!” A voice to his left shouts, and he sees Jasper on the bench gesturing towards him with a stick in his hand. Bellamy quickly skates over and takes it, and breathes a sigh of relief when the penalty finally ends and he can get off the ice for a few minutes. 

 

“You’re a fucking idiot, you know?” His defense partner Miller tells him in between gulps of water, “Every time you go after that guy he either breaks your stick or your face.”

 

“He hit me in the face _one time_ —“

 

“If you get in one more fight Griffin is going to want to talk to you. Can’t give the team a bad name, or whatever.”

 

“Can we just concentrate on the game?” Bellamy asks, grumbling, as he sees his coach glaring at him from where he stands on the bench. 

 

They end up winning the game. Bellamy ends up with a black eye.

 

.

.

.

 

Bellamy gets home that night aching, his entire body protesting nearly every movement he makes. His apartment is dark, nothing but the moonlight through the window illuminating the small space. 

 

It was sparsely decorated, much to his sister’s dislike. He had argued that there was no point in interior decoration if he was going to spend half his time on the road, but somehow he still got strong armed into having a few photos on his mantle, and some paintings on the wall. All things Octavia picked out and hung herself. Bellamy smiles at the thought.

 

Heading into the bathroom, Bellamy grabs a bottle of Aleve out of the cabinet, rolling his shoulders and hearing the now-familiar pop and crack of his joints. After the game, he was looked over by their physio, who patched up his split lip and put some ice on his black eye. The hot shower he took afterwards was apparently not enough to lessen the feeling of getting hit by a bus. 

 

His phone rings from where it’s sitting on his coffee table, and he grabs for it absentmindedly.

 

“Dude,” Miller says as soon as Bellamy picks up, “Turn on the TV.”

 

“What—“

 

“Any channel. The news. It doesn’t matter.” Miller sounds half panicked, and Bellamy can’t remember a time when his friend has sounded quite like this.

 

Bellamy grabs the remote and points it towards the TV, watching as the screen flickers to life, breaking news alert bulletins flashing on the screen. 

 

“Fuck,” Bellamy says, the remote almost falling from his hand as he watches images of Jake Griffin, the general manager of the hockey team flash by, the whole thing almost in slow motion. 

 

“He just… dropped. Had a heart attack. Right after the game.” Miller’s voice sounds in his ear. 

 

“What… what’s going to happen?” Bellamy asks. He knows teams have things put in place for this, that there is protocol and whatever else the NHL insists they have, but this isn’t an ordinary team. His team… they were like family. They’ve all been together forever, hardly any trades in the last five years, and Jake Griffin was a hands-on general manager. He came to practice and all the games and now… now what? Who could possibly replace a man like that?

 

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll find out before practice tomorrow.”

 

“When’s the funeral?” Bellamy asked. There was no doubt that the entire team would want to be there, whether they had a game or not.

 

The TV kept flashing interviews of the team and their GM and Bellamy felt a weird ache in his chest. He needed to ensure that his future with this team was solid. He was the captain, sure, but he needed to make sure he wouldn’t be traded if whoever came in and took over decided they needed to dump some money. His sister finally had some stability in this city, and he’d be damned if they had to up and move again.

 

.

.

.

.

 

The next morning is an optional skate, but the entire team is there, lacing up in the locker room when their coach, Marcus Kane, walks in, a grim expression on his face.

 

“Boys,” he says, by way of greeting, “I’m sure you’ve all heard the news by now. We’re not scheduled to leave for Toronto until Friday, so the funeral for Mr. Griffin is going to be held on Thursday. It’s not open to the public, but the family said anyone who wants to attend should. I don’t need to remind you about how much the Griffins have done for this team and this city,” Kane swallows, “It would be nice of all of you to pay your respects.”

 

A general murmur of agreement sweeps through the room, and Bellamy finds that his throat is thick at the thought of being at a funeral home. The last time he was in one, it was for his own mother, and he’s afraid that the memories will come rushing back, of accepting condolences from people who had never bothered to help his mother when she was alive, of keeping Octavia from throwing herself on the floor in tears when it finally came time to say goodbye, of struggling to pay the bills just to give his mother a proper burial. 

 

“Hey,” Miller nudged him, “Don’t think too hard.” 

 

Miller and Bellamy have been friends since they were in high school. Both seen as outcasts, they bonded over their love of hockey, and played in high school and in city leagues together before they both got drafted. They went their separate ways when they played in the minors, but when Bellamy was traded to Miller’s team, they both got called up at the same time. Miller probably knows Bellamy better than anyone else, and it helps that he’s there to give Bellamy the reassurance that he’s too proud to ask for.

 

Practice goes by slowly, and it feels like they’re all in slow motion. Kane almost leaves the rink after the first two shifts sort of fall apart, everyone playing out of position and out of sync. 

 

“I know this is a weird time and this is the last place you all want to be right now, but we still have a job to do. We are two months from the playoffs, and we’re locked in with DC in the standings, so unless you want to lose in the first round for the second year in a row, you need to get moving.” He finished his rant, and took a deep breath. “We’re done. Blake, I need to see you in my office.”

 

Bellamy restrained himself from rolling his eyes. If he’s heard that phrase once, he’s heard it a million times over the years. He goes to the locker room and downs a Gatorade before heading to Kane’s office, mostly to annoy his coach by stalling for time. Heading down the hallway, he goes into Kane’s office and shuts the door behind him.

 

“Is this going to be a long term meeting? Because I sort of have—“

 

“I need you to meet with new GM,” Kane says, cutting right to the chase. 

 

“They have a new GM already?” Bellamy says, feeling indignation on Jake Griffin’s behalf. He’s been dead for barely a day and they’re already moving on? The whole thing left a sour taste in Bellamy’s mouth. “Who is he?”

 

“ _She_ is Clarke Griffin.” 

 

“You’re kidding.” Bellamy asked, plopping down into the chair in front of Kane’s desk. “How is she going to—“

 

“Look, it doesn’t matter what you think. She’s taking over for her father, and that’s the end of it. I need you to meet with her, that way when the press conference is announced, you can speak at that, too.”

 

“Jesus, Kane—“

 

“You’re the captain of this team, Bellamy, you have been for years. Your acceptance of the new GM and giving the team’s condolences directly to his daughter is _important_ —“

 

“What’s important is the future of this team!” Bellamy is back on his feet in a heartbeat, pacing. “How can a girl who’s probably never watched a hockey game in her life take over just because her Dad had the job first? How are we going to succeed if she just waltzes in here?”

 

“You’re being unfair. Clarke used to spend a lot of time at the rink when she was younger—“

 

“Has she been here in the last ten years?”

 

Kane is silent, and Bellamy continues to fume. His entire body feels like it’s vibrating with anger as he thinks about the girl he’s heard so much about, but never seen. How is she supposed to take over for a guy who spent 80% of his time at the rink if she hasn’t stepped foot on the ice in over ten years? He knows a family member is the most logical choice to take over for Jake at least in the interim. The Griffins are practically an institution in Ark. They give money to the public schools, they provide money to help build arenas and concert venues, and they volunteer in their spare time. He doesn’t know how any of that can craft a hockey mind out of a spoiled girl, however.

 

“I’m not asking you to do this, I’m telling you.” Kane says, and he’s got that look on his face that he gets right before he makes Bellamy do extra conditioning work for mouthing off. Kane’s face changes then, and he looks tired. “This isn’t easy for any of us, but we have to stick together if we’re going to get through this,” Kane says, “The team needs you, and so do I. I need you to do this.”

 

Bellamy sighs after a few minutes of tense silence, pinching the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. “When and where?”

 

.

.

.

.

 

He’s scheduled to meet with Clarke Griffin the day before her father’s funeral, and it’s a hasty decision, one that he suspects neither of them made on their own. He finds it really hard to believe that she would want to have this kind of meeting before she’s even said her goodbyes to her Dad, but then again, he doesn’t know anything about her.

 

He doesn’t know what she looks like, either, and after sitting at a table for an hour alone, he decides to forget the whole thing and heads to the bar. When he orders his beer, he sits down at a stool, watching out of the corner of his eye as a woman, probably his age, hurries in and sits down, ordering a double shot of whiskey. 

 

“Rough day?” Bellamy can’t help but ask, and she turns to him, her eyes a bright blue, but they look dull somehow.

 

“I know you,” she says, and he chokes a little on his beer.

 

“Wow. Most people act like they don’t know who I am before just coming right out with it,” he says, and she laughs a little.

 

“Sorry. I’ve never been known for my subtlety.” She takes a sip of her whiskey, her eyes closing briefly before looking back at him, turning to face him. “You play for the Rebels.” 

 

Bellamy nods, taking a long pull from his beer bottle. “Bellamy Blake.” He holds out his hand for her to shake, and she takes it, but doesn’t tell him her name, just goes back to her drink. He shrugs off the feeling of disappointment. 

 

“I heard about what happened to the GM.”

 

Bellamy swallows hard, and nods again. “He was a good man,” he tells her honestly. “I’m here to meet his daughter, actually,” he admits, and he doesn’t know why he’s telling her this. She looks like she needs a distraction, though, and he doesn’t have anything better to do. “I think she stood me up,” he says, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

 

“I can’t believe anyone would stand you up,” the woman tells him, and he’s hoping he’s not reading it wrong that she’s flirting with him. 

 

“I guess I should have known she would do something like this, though,” he says, and he thinks the two beers he’s had since he started waiting for Clarke and the one he’s having now are making his tongue loose, because he’s off on a tangent. “I mean, this girl is like… probably super rich, and privileged, and has a lot of better things to do with her time other than meet with me.”

 

“I’m sure she has her reasons.”

 

Bellamy scoffs, “Everyone always has a reason, but… my team… we’re trying to do something in this city. We’re trying to win a championship. How are we going to do that with a new general manager who probably doesn’t even care about hockey?”

 

The woman quirks an eyebrow, “What makes you so sure this guy’s daughter doesn’t love hockey too?”

 

Bellamy laughs, “She hasn’t stepped foot into the arena since she was a kid. She’s a doctor, or something. Went to a fancy school, lived abroad, the whole nine yards. A total princess.”

 

She woman is quiet, and downs the rest of her drink. She leaves a bill on the bar to cover it, and when she gets up, she turns to Bellamy. “Well, Mr. Blake, I hope your meeting with her goes well. And good luck with the rest of your season.”

 

Before he can say anything, she’s gone, and when Bellamy glances back down at the bar, there’s a business card there next to the drink. When he glances at it, his whole body freezes, and he feels humiliation start to creep over him like a wave.

 

**Clarke Griffin**

**Executive Vice President and General Manager**

**Ark Rebels - National Hockey League**

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bellamy hisses, realizing he’s just insulted his new boss right to her face. 

 

.

.

.

.

 

“Well, this is quite easily the dumbest situation you’ve ever gotten yourself into,” Octavia tells him later that night, from where she’s perched on his kitchen island, painting her toenails a bright pink. 

 

“I didn’t know!”

 

“You could have Googled her before you went to meet her,” his sister points out and he groans, letting his head hit the island with an audible _thump_. 

 

“Well, I didn’t, and now I’m almost definitely going to get traded.”

 

“It’s a good thing I don’t live with you anymore, because I am not moving again.”

 

“You’re so supportive. Really, thank you.” Bellamy deadpans. 

 

“That’s what I’m here for, big brother,” she chirps, patting him on the head before she gets off the island and starts raiding the fridge. “Jesus, you have nothing. What do you eat?” 

 

“Takeout.”

 

“You’re a hockey player. You can’t eat Chinese before every game. How do you not puke on the ice every single night?”

 

“They have food for us, usually.”

 

Octavia rolls her eyes. “It’s amazing how you’ve tricked the entire city into thinking you’re a responsible adult capable of leading an entire team.”

 

Bellamy ignores her and heads into the living room, where he sprawls out on the couch, turning on the TV. All the sports news is about his team and he really can’t watch anything more about Jake Griffin or he thinks he might die if he has to relive his encounter with Clarke this afternoon. 

 

“So what are you going to do?” Octavia asks when she comes into the room, a bag of pretzels in her hand, and she flops down onto the overstuffed armchair next to the couch. 

 

“I don’t know. I have to do the press conference with her too, and the funeral is tomorrow.” 

 

“So apologize at the funeral.”

 

“I don’t think she’ll want to hear from me at all tomorrow, O.”

 

Octavia shrugs, “You can’t avoid her forever. You have to take orders from her now.”

 

Bellamy groans. “Can we please not talk about this?” 

 

“Whatever,” Octavia says, “Where’s your suit? The black one. I’ll iron your shirt for you.”

 

.

.

 

The next day seems to drag on. The funeral is private, but there are easily over a hundred people there. It’s easy to see how much Jake Griffin was loved by people. Clarke is there too, of course, with a woman Bellamy assumes is her mother, and she completely ignores him when the team lines up to offer their condolences after the service.

 

“Thank you for coming,” Abby Griffin tells him, after looking horrified at her daughter’s actions. Bellamy doesn’t know much about Jake’s wife. He knows she’s a surgeon, and that once she helped do emergency surgery when Jasper took a puck right to the neck in the middle of the game. He thinks he likes her, but she’s hard to read, much like her daughter.

 

“Dude, what the hell did you do at that meeting yesterday?” Miller asks him once they get outside of the church.

 

“I may or may not have told her that she’s privileged and has no business managing our team,” Bellamy says sheepishly, loosening his tie. 

 

“Are you out of your mind?!”

 

“I didn’t know it was her! Look, I don’t want to talk about it. I fucked up, royally. My plan is just to avoid her at all costs and hope she doesn’t trade me.”

 

“Don’t look now,” Miller warns, and Bellamy looks up just in time to see Clarke Griffin storming in his direction, her blonde curls flying around her face in the breeze. 

 

“You,” she says, nearly stabbing him in the chest with her index finger, “You are the most ungrateful, self-centered, egotistical idiot I’ve ever met!” 

 

“Um—“

 

“Don’t talk. Don’t you dare talk to me after what you said to me yesterday. You know, I was just going to ignore it. I was going to ignore it and let you bask in the glow of your idiocy once you figured out who I was, but then you don’t even have the decency to _apologize_ —“

 

“I wasn’t going to apologize in the middle of your Dad’s funeral!” Bellamy hisses, trying to keep his voice down. Clarke seems to deflate at his words, as if she’s just now remembering where they are and why they’re at a church, and he kind of hates himself for putting that look on her face.

 

Miller just stands there, awkwardly on Bellamy’s left, just like he would be on the ice, as Clarke looks at Bellamy with so much disgust he can hardly stand it. 

 

“I don’t care what you think of me. I’m running this team now, and my Dad taught me everything he knows. You have another thing coming if you think I’m just going to let you do whatever you want and say whatever you want.”

 

Bellamy opens his mouth, but shuts it again when he sees tears welling in Clarke’s eyes. He doesn’t think it’s possible to feel any lower than he does right in this moment. 

 

.

.

.

 

On Friday before the team’s plane takes off for Toronto for their next game, Bellamy stands with Clarke as she gives her first press conference as the new GM for the Rebels. She looks perfectly put together, but Bellamy recognizes the look in her eyes — it’s the look of someone who’s lost everything, but doesn’t know how to start putting the pieces back together. It’s the same look his sister said he had when their mother died.

 

Bellamy is professional, giving condolences on behalf of the team, and promising the city that they won’t give up on Jake Griffin’s dream to win the Stanley Cup. Clarke smiles at him, and if he didn’t know any better, he would marvel at how genuine and pretty it was.

 

Afterwards, when they are walking out to the bus, Clarke brushes by him without a word, and they get on the bus to take them to the airport, where the team plane is waiting. Bellamy tries and fails not to feel like complete shit about the entire situation. He knows he should apologize. It would help clear his conscious, and the last thing he needs is a heavy mind when they’ve got an important game to play.

 

Steeling himself, Bellamy gets up from his seat and slides into the one next to Clarke before the older man driving the bus can yell at him for moving while they’re on the road.

 

“Getting up while Glenn is driving is a good way to get yelled at,” Clarke says without looking up from her tablet, and he furrows his brow.

 

“You know Glenn?”

 

This time she looks up, peering at him over the tops of her glasses. “I’ve known Glenn since I was five. Sometimes my Dad would get him to drive me to art class after school when he couldn’t take me himself.”

 

Bellamy blinks, not sure what to make of this sudden insight into the Griffins’ home life. “Right. Um, look. I wanted to apologize. You’re right; I handled myself inappropriately the other night, and I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”

 

“I agree; you shouldn’t have.”

 

Bellamy sits there, not really sure what to say, only knowing that he has to find a way to get in this woman’s good graces if he’s going to keep his job. “So… I’m sorry.”

 

“It really pained you to say that, didn’t it.” She asks, looking back at her tablet. He sees over her shoulder that she’s got a spreadsheet with all the teams and the standings on it and he wonders briefly what she’s planning. He thinks that he’s underestimated her, and he hates the feeling. “Oh look, we’re at the airport.” She deadpans, and then she’s packing up her stuff, and Bellamy knows a dismissal when he sees one.

 

He gets back to his seat before Glenn can yell at him, and catches Kane’s eye on his way. The older man smirks at him, actually smirks at him, and he’s starting to think that he’s the only one who underestimated Clarke Griffin.

 

.

.

.

.

 

They beat Toronto, but barely. The game goes into overtime, even though they were winning by three goals in the third period. The defense fell apart, and Bellamy got into another fight that cost him five minutes in the penalty box, and gave the Leafs the advantage they needed to score the tying goal. 

 

They only scored the winner in overtime because Miller caught their goalie out of position and sent a wrist-shot right over his shoulder, but it hardly felt like a win for the Rebels.

 

Bellamy wants to punch something, but before he can even _think_ , the locker room door is bursting open and Clarke Griffin is there. Bellamy’s first thought is that someone could be naked, but the pure anger in her eyes is enough to make that thought disappear.

 

Luckily, no one is out of their uniforms yet, and they all stare at her, bewildered. 

 

“What the _hell_ was that?” She asks, her voice low and dangerous. “How many late goals are we going to give up in one season?”

 

“Miss Griffin, you can’t be in here—“ Kane starts, but is silenced when she holds her hand up.

 

“I won’t be here long.”

 

Kane stays quiet, and Bellamy looks at him incredulously. He can’t believe their coach isn’t going to kick her out of the locker room or at least insist that she pass along whatever message she has through him.

 

“You boys,” Clarke continues, her voice rising, “need to figure this out. This,” she gestures around to the rest of the team, “is not acceptable. We can’t keep going to overtime. We can’t keep acting like we’ve won the game after two periods and letting the other team walk all over us in the third!” 

 

“With all due respect ma’am,” Monty, their goalie speaks up, “Those goals weren’t soft goals. I was screened for the first two and the last they just beat me.” He says, shrugging.

 

“I’m not blaming you, Green. I know you worked your ass off. Stopping over 40 shots on goal is nothing to laugh at. I’m blaming stupid penalties for leaving us two players short and giving you no help in front of the net,” Clarke says, and Bellamy narrows his eyes.

 

“Blake, if you get in one more fight for absolutely no reason at all that costs us a lead, you’re going to be a healthy scratch,” she threatens, and Bellamy sees red.

 

“Like _fuck_ am I going to sit out—“

 

“ _Blake_.” Kane tries to interrupt him, but Bellamy can feel the anger building in him and can’t stop himself from lashing out. 

 

“Our best center got tripped three times without a call, so I went after the guy. Anyone else would have done the same.”

 

“I don’t care,” Clarke says, “Not when you get stuck in the box for five minutes.”

 

“I was just—“

 

“I don’t _care_!” Clarke shouts, her eyes blazing. “My Dad believed in this team.” She turns to look right at Bellamy, “My Dad believed in _you_. If you can’t stay on the ice long enough to help your team win, then what are you doing here?” She asks, and Bellamy can’t believe she’s doing this in front of everyone. He can’t believe she’s challenging his status as captain, and he can’t believe that this is the second time in less than a week that they’ve been at each other’s throats. “Get it together,” she hisses through gritted teeth, and then she’s gone, the door slamming behind her.

 

No one moves, no one even breathes and Bellamy feels like he’s suffocating on his anger. He’s never felt like this before. He’s never been all at once angry and shameful, and it feels terrible, because somewhere deep down he knows she’s right — he’s taking too many bad penalties, he’s acting on his emotion first instead of playing smart and letting his anger fuel his play. 

 

He doesn’t want to admit it, though. 

 

“Mandatory skate tomorrow. We need to get our penalty kill figured out,” Kane says firmly. 

 

He leaves too, and the team is left alone. Dax, one of the defensemen lets out a breathless laugh. “Jesus. What a _bitch_.”

 

“Watch your mouth,” Bellamy growls before he can stop himself. “She’s signing your paycheck.”

 

“She just took you to task in front of the entire team and now you’re going to defend her?” Dax looks incredulous, but also a little smug, and Bellamy wants to hit him.

 

“I’m not going to ask you again,” Bellamy says, and then Miller is there, on his weak side, like he always is, and Dax backs off. Bellamy isn’t in the position of fighting with his teammates often, but he’s itching for a fight. He knows he needs to get it out of his system before practice tomorrow, and he leaves the arena to board the team bus to their hotel in a foul mood, with a dark look on his face. 

 

He’s grateful Clarke isn’t on the bus.

 

.

.

 

He doesn’t sleep much that night, preferring to wallow in front of the TV in his and Miller’s bedroom. Miller is out like a light the minute his head hits the pillow, and Bellamy is grateful that his friend doesn’t try to get him to talk about what happened during or after the game.

 

Their morning skate is at 9am, and Bellamy drinks three cups of coffee before he even feels human. This practice is better. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that Clarke Griffin is in the stands, watching them all like a hawk.

 

Bellamy is still angry at her, but he thinks this is the best he’s played in a while. A childish part of him wants her to see that if she benches him, she’s going to regret it. The more mature part of him knows that it’s in his best interest to make sure he plays his best, so he can help his teammates do the same.

 

He gives a passionate speech during their break, trying to convince them that they’re not doing this for themselves, they’re doing it for Jake, and the guys mostly agree, although Dax and Murphy look grumpy all the time, so Bellamy can’t really tell if they’re not on board, or just don’t care.

 

Overall, it’s the first good day they’ve had in awhile. When he leaves the ice, he catches Clarke’s eye, and she manages a small smile. He fights back one of his own, knowing that’s the closest they’re going to get to apologizing to each other for what happened in the locker room.

 

.

.

.

.

 

The next two months fly by, and Clarke and Bellamy reach a truce, of sorts. She surprises him by sitting right behind the bench for most of the games, rather than up in a suite like a lot of team personnel do. She comes to every practice, and a few times she even laces up herself, and comes out on the ice for a better look at the drills and how they’re working.

 

Bellamy knows he judged her too quickly before they met. He’s not an idiot; he knows it would be a miracle if she ever forgave him for thinking she was just a girl who had nothing better to do than run her father’s hockey team. She’s proven him wrong time and time again, however, and he’s finding it harder and harder to ignore the fact that he actually kind of _likes_ having her around.

 

They end up spending a lot of time together, planning team meetings and discussing her talking points for press conferences with the playoffs fast approaching. They work well together. The team is on their way to setting a franchise record, which is more than they can say for last year’s disappointing record, where they just barely squeaked by into the playoffs and then lost in the first round.

 

In the back of Bellamy’s mind, he wonders if this is as obvious as it feels — the way she sits next to him at meetings where they watch film of their most recent games, and film of the teams they’re getting ready to play. The way she tosses popcorn in his direction because he bets her ten dollars he can catch them all in his mouth, the way he wants to make her smile, wants to wipe off the look on her face when she remembers her Dad.

 

It’s different. The atmosphere is different. The team respects her. They respected Jake, too, but this is different. Jake felt like the Dad the guys never had. Clarke is like… Clarke is like their little sister. He knows Miller has already defended her to the press vehemently after two losses in a row that the media blamed on bad management. 

 

Bellamy however, is distinctly aware that Clarke is not his little sister.

 

At Christmas, the team has a party, and Bellamy brings Octavia. Octavia knows Miller, and Jasper, and has met Monty occasionally, but she’s still nervous about coming. Clarke takes a shine to her right away, and it causes something warm to bloom in Bellamy’s chest when he sees the two of them sitting close together, their cheeks pink from laugher (and alcohol, he assumes). 

 

Clarke comes to team meetings, and participates in a way that Jake never did. Maybe it’s because she thinks she needs to prove herself, or thinks she needs to prove that she knows hockey, but Bellamy is quite sure he’s never met someone else with the same fire in their eyes to win that he has. 

 

“You totally want to make out with her,” Octavia accuses one night when they’re back in Ark, and Bellamy finally gets to come back to his apartment.

 

“I don’t,” he argues, but he can feel the tips of his ears turning red, and hates himself for it.

 

“You definitely don’t think she’s a spoiled little rich girl anymore though,” his sister points out, and he begrudgingly agrees with her.

 

He doesn’t even know when it started - all he knows now is that he notices Clarke more. He notices the dimples she gets in her cheeks when she laughs at a bad joke Jasper tells her. He notices the gleam in her eyes when they beat Toronto 5-0 on their home ice. He notices the way her eyes go a little dark when someone mentions her Dad, and he notices the way they get a little brighter when Kane tells her that her Dad would be proud.

 

He notices one night at a team dinner when she’s practically vibrating in her seat when Dallas and Minnesota go into overtime, and he teases her for sweating when the game goes into a shootout. He’s surprised at how into the game she is, especially considering the team she has a large stake in isn’t even playing.

 

He notices how she always comes to the rink with a cup of coffee glued to her hand, but puts it down when Kane asks her, jokingly, if she wants to shoot a few. Bellamy notices when Miller offers up his stick to her, and he definitely notices that she scores three goals like it’s not the first time she’s done it.

 

He notices when she suddenly stops coming to practices and sits in a suite for games.

 

“What did you do?” Miller asks him sharply, and Bellamy shrugs.

 

“I honestly have no idea.”

 

Thankfully, they have a game to play, so Miller can’t press him any further, but it doesn’t stop Bellamy from wishing that Clarke was sitting behind the bench, even if she ignored him the whole time. 

 

That’s the first, sure sign that he’s totally fucked.

 

.

.

.

.

 

It’s two weeks before the playoffs start that Bellamy decides he’s had enough. The team isn’t practicing as hard, and they need some motivation, more motivation than Bellamy can give them alone. They need Clarke to come to practice ranting and raving. He needs her to scare some inspiration into his guys.

 

They’re on the road for their last four games, which, yeah, totally sucks. It sucks worse that he feels like he’s personally responsible for Clarke not being herself. He doesn’t even know what he could’ve done, but he feels… he feels like she’s abandoned them, and he doesn’t know how to do this alone. 

 

When he first was made captain, he had Jake’s support, one hundred percent. It helped to have someone else there, someone else to shoulder the burden and back him up when he needed the team to play like it meant something. It means something, he’s realizing, that he found that kind of support and backbone in Clarke Griffin.

 

He’s standing in front of the hotel room he’s pretty sure is hers, and trying to decide if he’s making a huge mistake in coming here like this. He’s pretty sure this crosses, like, a hundred different lines, but he needs help. He knocks, and only realizes he’s holding his breath when she opens the door, and he lets it out again.

 

“Bellamy?”

 

“I’m— I’m sorry for just showing up, but…”

 

“Don’t just stand out there, someone might see you,” she hisses, grabbing his wrist and pulling him inside. “What are you doing here?” 

 

“You weren’t at dinner,” he replies, and she shrugs.

 

“Wasn’t hungry.”

 

“You haven’t been around at all, really.”

 

She at least has the decency to look apologetic, and he’s relieved that she’s showing human emotions. “I’ve been… there’s been things going on and I haven’t felt like… like being there, as much.”

 

“You can’t just check out when you don’t feel like being there,” Bellamy says, suddenly upset. “I… I can’t do this alone, okay? The team needs you. They need you to go down there and yell at them and scare them into doing what they’re supposed to do.”

 

She turns away from him, facing the wall, and he doesn’t really know what to do, so he turns to leave before he can say or do something else stupid that will get him traded before the playoffs even start. 

 

“I haven’t been there because I needed to keep my distance,” she says, and he freezes, not sure what he’s supposed to infer from that sentence. She turns back around and he sucks in a breath because _— god_ , that look on her face. She looks… well she looks _wrecked_ , and that’s the only word for it. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself, because they’re not even really friends. How is he supposed to handle this? 

 

“I’m getting too close,” she continues, “I’m getting too close to the team, and letting my emotions take over. I need to be able to make decisions. Some of them might be hard decisions. I can’t do that if I treat everyone around here like a friend.”

 

Bellamy isn’t sure what makes him do it, but he takes a step towards her, deliberately, carefully. “Is that what we are? Friends?”

 

She looks conflicted, and he’s pretty sure she would stand there all day without answering him if he doesn’t press her now.

 

“Clarke.”

 

“You shouldn’t call me that. I’m your boss,” she says, but it’s a weak plea.

 

“You called me Bellamy,” he offers, shrugging. “I’ve called you Clarke a hundred times.”

 

“It was ninety-nine times too many!” She argues, taking a step backwards. “Look, we can’t do this. It’s better for the team if I distance myself because I… god, I _like_ you, and it’s so stupid, because all you ever do is push my buttons and make me so angry that I don’t know what to do with myself, and—“

 

She doesn’t get the rest of her words out, because Bellamy takes three strides towards her and closes any distance remaining between them, literally and figuratively, and kisses her.

 

_Shit_ , he thinks dimly, _this could be a disaster_. He doesn’t think anything else after that, because her hands are carding through his hair, scratching at his scalp in a way that makes him shiver, and then she sighs into his mouth, and he’s pretty much done for.

 

He moves them backwards until she’s pressed against the wall, and he presses every inch of her body to his, molding them together so tight he can’t really tell where he ends and she begins.

 

He always knew there was tension between he and Clarke, but he never thought it would be like _this_ , this mind blowing feeling that he never wants to end. All of a sudden, it’s so simple. He still doesn’t know a lot about her, but he knows enough, enough to know that she might drive him crazy, but in the best possible way.

 

.

.

.

.

 

The next morning he wakes up expecting to find Clarke there next to him, hoping to spend a few more minutes basking in her warmth before he sneaks back to his hotel room, but instead he finds her in the bathroom, tears streaming down her face.

 

“Fuck,” he says sharply, the image not something he expected to see, and she shrinks away from him. “Clarke?”

 

“I’m sorry, I’m…” She trails off, and he panics, sure that she regrets last night, that she regrets him and that he pressured her, he pressured her into facing whatever it is she feels, and now she’s going to hate him for it. “It’s not you,” she chokes out, “I’m sorry, I don’t… I just feel so… I don’t know how to do this!” 

 

“Clarke, I’m sorry, but what the fuck are you talking about?”

 

She lets out a cross between a laugh and a sob. “It’s not fair,” she says and he would have laughed at her petulance if he weren’t half-convinced that she was having a mental breakdown. “It’s not fair that I meet someone that I like and who likes me, and who drives me nuts but still _cares_ and he’s my _employee_!” 

 

“You’re still talking about me, right?” He asks, partly joking, and he’s relieved when she smacks him, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to draw a smile out of him. “I don’t really have any idea what to do either, if that helps.” He sits down next to her and on impulse drags her half into his lap. 

 

“When I took the job from my Dad, it was supposed to be temporary. I didn’t think I would like it. I love watching hockey, but I thought running things would take away from that.”

 

“And it didn’t?” 

 

“It made it better,” she says, and Bellamy is so grateful he’s getting the chance to see this side of her — this softer, more vulnerable side to her that he’s pretty sure she doesn’t let people see often. He’s seen her with her guard down before, but always when they were with more people from the team, not like this.

 

“You wanna know what I think?” he asks, and when she just looks at him with red-rimmed eyes, he smiles softly. “I think we have a Stanley Cup to win, Princess.”

 

.

.

.

.

 

They sweep Chicago in the first round.

 

They take the second round in five games.

 

They’re two periods away from winning the Stanley Cup.

 

Bellamy can barely breathe, he’s so labored, but they’ve been on the penalty kill four times during this game, and he’s gotten the most ice time out of anyone.

 

The team is playing with determination, but they’re jittery, and reckless, hence the penalties. They finally manage to kill off the last one, and thankfully the period ends, allowing them all to get some time to catch their breath.

 

“That was four PK’s too many,” he mutters when they get into the locker room, and Miller grunts his agreement.

 

When they get back on the ice, he spots Clarke behind the bench, and meets her eyes briefly. Hers crinkle in recognition and she winks at him, actually _winks_ , and he’s so far gone for her it’s ridiculous. He knows he needs to focus, though, so he forces himself to stop smiling like an idiot and moves to center ice to take the face-off. 

 

He flies up the ice with Miller on his left and Jasper on his right, Murphy and Dax behind them, taking their places on the blue line. Bellamy lifts his head and sees a lane right to the net, and he knows this goalie has a weak spot — he can’t stop anything that comes in from over his shoulder. 

 

He pulls up to avoid a hard hit briefly, and hears the roar from the crowd when he evades it easily, the would-be attacker falling from his own momentum. He takes the slapshot, feeling it hit right in the sweet spot of his blade, and it’s like everything goes to slow motion. The defensemen for the other team straighten up in an attempt to get out of the way and avoid knocking the puck into their own net, but the end up screening their goalie instead, and suddenly the goal horn is going off.

 

Bellamy raises his stick in celebration with his teammates as they crowd him against the boards, and the crowd is so loud he almost can’t hear his own team.

 

Skating back over to his bench to give high fives, he suddenly feels his feet go out from under him, and he’s seeing stars. Faintly, he registers his team up in arms on the bench, and sees Miller and Jasper immediately go after the player who knocked him down after the play was already over — it’s Tristan, just like Bellamy knew it would be.

 

He and Tristan go way back to being college rivals, both of them at the top of their game for their respective teams. Bellamy was drafted over Tristan, and the guy has held a grudge ever since. It doesn’t help that he’s also known for being the enforcer for his team, the player who will hit anyone at any time.

 

Bellamy tries to get up, but his left leg goes out from under him again, and Miller tries to help haul him up, but the team trainers are there, shouting at him not to move. Kane is there too, a rarity. The coach never leaves the bench.

 

“Blake, I swear if you’re hurt I’m going to kill you.”

 

“Thanks for the concern, boss,” Bellamy rasps, still trying to get some air back in his lungs. He landed hard on his back, and the wind was knocked out of him before he even registered that he’d been hit.

 

“We need to take him to the quiet room in case he’s concussed,” the trainer says, and Bellamy groans.

 

“No, there’s still time left, I’m fine, I need to—“

 

“You need to get up, and do as I say,” Lexa, the trainer tells him. She’s scary, but not in a good way, like Clarke, he dazedly thinks. 

 

Lexa, Kane, Miller and Jasper help him off the ice, and he’s pleased to see both Tristan _and_ Murphy in their respective penalty boxes - which means Murphy probably beat the shit out of Tristan as soon as Bellamy got hit. At least the guy sticks up for him when he really needs it.

 

“Keep your eyes open,” Lexa orders when she gets him onto the exam table in the quiet room.”If you feel like you’re going to throw up or have a bad headache, you need to tell me.”

 

The door bursts open, and Clarke rushes in, her eyes wide with worry, but filled with anger at the same time. “Bellamy,” she says, her expression softening when her gaze lands on him, and Lexa coughs quietly.

 

“I’ll give you a few minutes. If he pukes, come get me.” She says shortly, and leaves the room.

 

“I’m fine,” Bellamy says before Clarke can get a word in.

 

“Good, or I’ll kill you,” she threatens, and he manages a weak smile.

 

“That’s what Kane said.”

 

“Smart man.”

 

“Are you going to come over here or just stand there?” He asks, “I am injured, after all.”

 

“Shut up,” she snaps, but comes to stand between his legs all the same. “You’re not supposed to be talking. This is a quiet room.” She scolds, taking one hand and resting it on his cheek, causing his eyes to flutter shut.

 

“I’m sweaty,” he protests, but she shakes him off.

 

“I don’t care. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

 

“I’m okay, Clarke, I swear.” He tells her, “I want to fight him, _again_ , but I’m fine.” 

 

“I need you back out there.” She says, and he knows she wants to say more, but from the small time they’ve been together, if he can even call it that, he knows she keeps her emotions close. 

 

“Then get Lexa to clear me.”

 

“This is serious, Bellamy! Concussions are no joke,” she says, a crease working its way between her eyebrows. 

 

“I’ll be okay,” he tells her, softer, linking their fingers together. “We’ll be okay,” he repeats, and it sounds like a promise.

 

.

.

.

 

They win the Cup. 

 

Miller and Murphy both score two more goals, and it’s surreal, the team coming to get him from the locker room so he can be on the ice when they’re presented with the most sought after trophy in almost all of sports. 

 

As the Captain, he hoists it over his head first, aware of Lexa watching him like a hawk from the bench in case he passes out or something. The adrenaline of winning seems to help, and he takes his victory lap around the ice with a broad smile on his face, hearing the crowd roaring in approval. 

 

He tries searching for his sister in the crowd after he passes off the Cup to Miller, and spots her in Clarke’s usual seat, now vacated since Clarke is on the ice with them. Clarke and Kane both give a speech, thanking Ark and its fans for coming out to support the team, and for helping her bring her Dad’s dream to life. 

 

He meets her eyes after that, tries to tell her without words that he’s proud of her, and the way her cheeks go pink tell him that he’s succeeded.

 

Late that night, after all the parties are over, after Lexa threatens him with bodily harm if he doesn’t take his pain pills, he gets back to his apartment to find Clarke already there waiting for him. 

 

She meets him for a kiss immediately, weeks of pent up wanting making them both a little desperate.

 

“I’m quitting,” she gasps into his mouth, and he freezes. 

 

“What?”

 

“I’m promoting Kane and hiring a new coach,” she continues. “Might as well quit while I’m on top, right?”

 

Bellamy splutters, “Where are you going to go?”

 

“Relax,” she says, kissing him again, “Look, I really want to date you. I can’t do that if I’m the general manager. Plus… I don’t think I’m quite cut out for this job. I love hockey, but…” she sighs, clearly frustrated.

 

He tugs her closer, whispering. “Tell me.”

 

“I took this job because my Dad wanted me to. It was in his will. It was also in his will that if we win the cup, I should get out and find a job that I _really_ want.” She laughs, “I think he knew me even better than I know myself.”

 

“Your Dad was the best thing that ever happened to this team,” he tells her, kissing her temple. 

 

“What about me?” She says, affronted, and he chuckles.

 

“You’re pretty great too,” he says seriously, though he’s smiling, “I was going to say that I think you’re the best thing that’s happened to _me_.”

 

Her face scrunches up then, adorably, and then she’s pressing her face into his neck. He’s a little alarmed when he feels her tears on his neck, but today has been super emotional for all of them, so he doesn’t question it.

 

“When we first met I thought you were an entitled brat, and I wanted to hate you.”

 

“And?”

 

“I couldn’t hate you. The minute you marched into that locker room and reamed me out in front of my whole team… I wanted to hate you, but I just couldn’t. I was too busy being impressed.”

 

She blushes. “You just want me around to yell at you?”

 

He smirks, “Not quite. You challenge me. You put me in my place, and I need that. I need you,” he tells her honestly.

 

“I _am_ pretty badass,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. “You can kiss me again, if you want.” She says, and he laughs.

 

“Oh, I _can_ , can I? So generous.”

 

He leans in to kiss her again, and tries not to feel too cheesy when he thinks that she tastes a little bit like hope. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> please come cry with me on tumblr, @dreamingundone!


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